


if you must live

by Ushio



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Lavellan being way too good to him, Or: what would happen if Lavellan followed Solas through that Eluvian at the end of Trespasser?, Solas realizing he has been a dickhead, Trespasser Fix-It, children! - Freeform, english is not my first language so please excuse any mistakes, glossing over politics and stuff, they love each-other so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8536993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ushio/pseuds/Ushio
Summary: “If you must die, ma venhan, die knowing your life was my life’s best part.”The wolf howls his despair.(But she wakes.She lives yet another day.)[A story where Lavellan shows Solas a thousand reasons to live and fight for.]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!  
> Welp, this is my first solavellan fic but I've been lost in solavellan hell for a very long time :__D. I had the idea for this one after hearing Keaton Henson's "You" which I think it's the most perfect song for them? It describes their relationship quite literally. And as I was writing the fic kept getting out of hand it just grew and grew... so I hope you enjoy 8k of fluffiness! And a side-dash of angst.
> 
> This is basically how I would like the games to end, tbh. I know it's not going to happen but a girl can dream, eh?
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoy it <3.

**If you must wait,**

**Wait for them here in my arms as I shake**

**1**.

Her fingers are cold and her grip is harsh on his arm, almost vice-like. She claws at him, tightly-so, and her knuckles are taunt and white; her hands are steady and so is her body. She hides her head in his chest and curls her legs beneath her body as if trying to make herself smaller. Her eyes, downcast and cloudy, are filled to the brim with unshed tears. Her breath is shallow and fast — exhale inhale exhale inhale inhale _inhale_. There is no air in her lungs; there is no light in her veins. She says “Solas” and her voice quivers but does not break. Solas cups her cheek with the gentlest touch and his fingertips are steeped in robin’s egg blue sadness. He puts his forehead against hers and whispers “she’ll be fine” very slowly, with great care, as if he were holding something precious and fragile. Briseis nods her head once, then twice, and her other hand moves on its own and grips at his shirt right above his heart. Her fingers are cold when he covers her hand with his own. His heartbeat plays on, ever-so-slightly, off-rhythm but firm. It’s there. It’s there. Briseis nods her head and closes her eyes.

“Don’t leave,” she says, with the same voice she uses to commands armies and realms. Softly, with steely, velveteen-wrapped words.  She never raises her voice. She never has to. Solas tightens his embrace and puts his lips to her brow. He says “I won’t” and it is a lie but it is also a truth; his words are a coin tossed under the burning sun. A coin that keeps falling and never touches the ground; always yes and always no. But Briseis does not know. Not yet.

(There’s still time.)

Solas shakes when he wonders who will hold her once he is gone. Maybe Dorian. Or Cole. Or Cassandra, if she—

If—

They are still sitting by the riverbed, clothes cold and bodies even colder, pressed-up together, held only by common fear and the same deep-seated powerlessness, when the healer finally leaves the tent. Briseis moves so fast he can hardly catch her hands. Her fingers slip through his like water and he lets his arm hang in the air for a single second, confused, transfixed by her boney hips and her thin legs as she runs into the tent. He feels—

Shaken, to the very core.

(Cassandra’s voice rises among Briseis' cries of joy and the whole camp finally lets out a collective breath of relief.)

Solas does not. Solas gets up and looks at his hands. The sadness within him is tainted royal blue, now. He comprehends two truths.

_I will wait for her as long as she is my heart._

A coin that never falls.

_I can’t._

 

* * *

 

  
**If you must weep,**

**Do it right here in my bed as I sleep**

**2.**

Briseis has learnt to cry very quietly and her tears are thin, too, like rain leaking from a badly-fixed rooftop. Her shoulders barely even shake and her sobs are silent and brief. When asked, she only said in a nonchalant manner “I had two little sisters and no mother to take care of them. It was my job and mothers do not cry”; everyone in the bar went quiet. Varric learned then to never ask anything personal to their leader and Savior. She asked for another beer.

Before they fell into this mess she calls a relationship, Solas wondered where she cried. In her chambers, perhaps, in solitude and quiet. Or in her balcony, to feel the frozen wind on her swollen skin. He wondered and worried and despaired. But now he knows. Now, there is only one place on this world where she lets her guard down. Solas does not realize that she is crying for a very long time; he does not even realize she is in his bed until she turns a bit and the springs creak loudly because the mattress is terribly old. He cracks open one tired, bleary eye and the other follows through when he sees her: curled on her side, on the far end of the bed, shaking and shivering on top of the covers. Her dark, brown hair is chock-full of spilled moonlight. Her shoulder blades are bare; she’s only wearing her smallclothes. Solas raises slowly, worried that any sudden move may spook her away, and puts a hand over her small waist, bringing her near. He spoons her silently, tangling their legs and lacing their fingers; his head finds a crane in her neck and then he covers them both with his covers. It is no longer cold in his dull, austere little room.

The moonlight has spilled over her jaw and he kisses her there. He kisses the light out of her skin and then again. And then again until her shaking stops and the sobs subdue. Briseis does not face him. He can see the blush spread over her shoulders, crystal-clear on her porcelain skin even in the darkness of the night. She’s embarrassed. She’s ashamed.

“What happened?” He asks.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she says, barely a whisper, dragging every word with a hiss. “It’s too much and they ask too much of me. I will fuck it up. I will, like everything else I’ve fucked up my whole life.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you _know_?”

“You won’t, venhan.”

“You can’t just—“

“I know you like I know the back of my hand. I know you because you are my heart. And you will do just fine.” He whispers in her ear.

“You don’t _understand_ —“

“Then make me.”

She kicks him in the shin, quite hardly and he muffles a whimper on her hair.

“I’m not joking. There’s so many people putting their lives in my hands, expecting me to choose their fates and if they die… when they die, it’s my fault. Mine alone.”

“They choose to help, didn’t they? They are choosing to fight.”

“Yes, but…”

“Corypheus is a threat to us all. Someone has to stand against him. And people need a leader to follow.”

There is a long silence. And then:

“Why me?”

“Because you have the greatest spirit of them all. Your heart is… unique,” he says, his voice soft and kind. “You don’t have to be the strongest one of us, or the smartest or the more cunning one. Just you. You have a rare soul and an even rarest capacity for compassion. Look at your inner circle; just a bunch of strays, are we not?”

“You are not dogs,” she complains, turning around. Her eyes are huge and dark. There’s tear-tracks down her cheeks and Solas traces them with his fingers, haltingly.

“Perhaps. But we’ll gladly let you be our master,” he says. He smiles. “Even Vivienne.”

Briseis lets out a little puff of a laugh and Solas cracks a grin.

“I am no one. Just another silly dalish elf… just another mage.”

And then he kisses her.

He could kiss her forever. He looks at her and it’s every bit like looking at the starry sky outside: she is vast, and wondrous and terrifying.

“No, venhan. You’re the most important person in the world.” He says. “You’re e _verything.”_

He regrets the words the very moment he says them. The moment her eyes light up and her face softens around the edges. The unhappy set of her mouth loosens up and she scoots closer to kiss him back. She feels molten and pliable beneath his fingertips. He wonders how will she break the day he leaves. Will her courageous armor shatter? Will her stray dogs get a glimpse of the woman behind the staff, the woman behind the throne? Will she break apart into a thousand tiny pieces that no-one knows how to put together?

Will she cry here, in his bed, once it’s cold and empty?

Will she care?

He kisses her and presses up to her and lets her beat inside his ribcage. He regrets it, he does. But he cannot leave, not yet, not—

She smiles against his collarbones.

Not yet.

 

* * *

 

  
**If you must mourn, my love**

**Mourn with the moon and the stars up above**

**3.**

The next time he finds her crying it is at Skyhold’s gardens in the early morning. There is no-one around, not even a single guard for she must have dismissed them. She is kneeling on the dirty ground, hunched, trembling from head to toe; her fingers, scrapped raw and bloody around the nails, are deeply buried in the earth. She rocks back and forth, blubbering, sobbing, screaming at the stars and the moon—

“I told you,” Cole says, sadly, besides him. “You have to help her.”

He’s gone before Solas can even muster a response.

Wearily, Solas treads towards her in the upmost silence. He feels a heavy weight in his chest; a crack in his heart. He feels like crying too. Like breaking open and letting the starlight cast shadows over his insides. He feels like laying down in the earth besides her, like dying to restore whoever it is he has taken away from her. _It’s my fault. This pain she is feeling. These deaths that pervade the air; they hang on my hands._

He sits down next to her. She takes some time to notice. But she does, eventually. She turns her head, and her eyes shine like wildfire. She has bitten her lips to the point of blood. And her hair is mussed, unruly, sticking up in every direction as if she had tried to rip it. Solas wonders for a brief moment if a rage demon has taken control of her body. If she has lost herself to her grief. She shakes her head, following his trail of thought; her eyes are a shade darker than the void above.

“I am here. I am me.”

“Venhan… tell me. Who…”

“Adahlen was ten. Ten. And Davhalla, oh, Davhalla… she…” Her words die as her sobs return in full force and Solas takes her into his arms. It is then when she unburies her fingers and he realizes where she has been focusing her magic. The whole garden is in a brighter bloom than ever before. He had not noticed, in his distress, the colorful flowers and the rich apples that dangle from the numerous trees. There’s elf root everywhere and gingersnap bursting through the bench stones, and sage’s behind every pot and every glorified statue of Andraste. There is so much life.

Briseis is filled to the brim with it.

“Cullen informed me. I… choose wrong in a political matter concerning my clan and they have… they are all…” She heaves, clutching at her chest desperately. “Oh, I can’t, I can’t, Creators, _please_ , I can’t…”

“You can,” he says. “You will.”

“I don’t want to! They’re gone!”

“You _have_ to. You have to pull yourself together. The world won’t stop moving and Corypheus won’t hold back just to let you mourn.” He can feel the cold seep into his words and it chills him to the bone. But he is telling her the truth she needs the most, now.

“I don’t care… I don’t…”

“You do. You cared for them. And you care for us. You have to be strong, venhan.”

“Please…. please… let me rest…”

Her tears are hot and humid. She screams against his chest. She hits him with her bare, hurt hands and he heals her without a word. He can at least do that. Heal her body.

He can only pray for her soul.  

_Please, my darling, be strong. There still much worse to come._

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
**If you must mourn,**

**Don't do it alone**

**4.**

He never sees her cry again after that wretched moment. Their break-up does nothing but help furthering the distance between them. She’s always proud when she meets him; calm, collected, firm. Her voice never quivers. Her hand never shakes. Her tone is business-like and her words are clipped. And whenever she is done with him she will spare just one glance in his direction, one tiny sliver of weakness. He will see himself in her eyes; he will see the deeply entrenched darkness of that fateful night; he will see something that burns, fiery and violent and wild. He will see sorrow, fortitude, solitude, regret.

Shame, too.

(“She is bare-faced, embarrassed, and she doesn't know. She thinks it's because of her,” Cole says and she does not reply in any way and the others stay quiet, as well. Solas thinks of her old vallaslin, honoring Mythal, all thin, greenish lines. He thinks of her face now, so clean and clear. High cheekbones and light, cloudy eyes, and the sweetest set for a mouth. He wishes to tell her _you were always beautiful but you’re precious now. You are truly free._ He wishes to say many things he never does.

He wants to take her face into his hands and kiss the shame away.)

It is just one second before the mask slips into place. But every time, Solas feels her gaze as another arrow piercing his skin. A slow arrow breaking his jaw; breaking the flesh apart and hitting bone. Arrows deep-seated in his blood. He can feel each and every one of her gazes on his body at all moments, and he carries those marks with him every second of every day.

 _I will not forgive you_ scream her eyes. And the arrows pierce through his heart.

He mourns her loss in his rooms, late at night, in the farthest reaches of the Fade. He runs as a wolf through barren lands and deserted landscapes. Other spirits try to catch him but he is too fast. He cannot think, he cannot stop, he cannot feel anymore. He’s numb. Numb from running, from fleeing, from always fighting a losing war. From having to learn once again how to live without a heart.

In the midst of his mourning, he can only wish she had a place to cry and someone to hold her and mourn with and not be alone.

But they are alone. They truly are.                                  

 

* * *

 

  
**If you must leave,**

**Leave as though fire burns under your feet**

**5.**

He cannot stay for celebrations or feasts. The whole of Skyhole raises in victory and there’s laughter in every corner, tears, cheers, countless expressions of love and gratitude. He sees them all as he walks through them, invisible to their eyes. He sees Sera’s joy when she hugs Dana, and Varric patting a confused Cole who cannot stop crying tears of joy. Bull laughs with his Chargers so loudly that it seems as if the whole structure of the fortress could rumble with his roars. The advisors sit closely together and Solas does not miss Leliana and Josephine holding hands; tight fingers laced like a grapevine. And there is Cassandra, hugging Cullen, grinning so widely she doesn’t seem the same. And there is Blackwall, humbled and ashamed, cracking jokes with a smiling Inquisitor and a mockingly offended Dorian in tail. Vivienne sits near them and she does not speak, but with every sip of her expensive wine he can see the hint of a genuine smile.

No-one asks about Solas and that is fine. He watches them all, this people he had come to consider colleagues, and sometimes friends, and in one exceptional, wondrous occasion, his heart. He watches them until he feels choked and the tears threaten to spill. Then he leaves. His feet carry him across the mountains and the forests, fade-stepping through the snow like a flash of a ghost. He thinks about the death he will bring to all this smiling, happy, none-the-wiser people, and the thinks of all those innocent souls who have already died by Corypheus’ hands and therefore, by his own. He regrets and wonders and lets the guilt consume him.

But when he reaches the closest Eluvian and steps through, his face has slipped too into a mask. His eyes burn cold and his chin raises with pride. Whatever sorrow was festering in his soul, gets put aside very gently, with care; as if he was closing a tiny, jeweled box containing this past year. He feels heartless and devoid of any light or grace but he cannot falter. Not now. Not yet.

“There is work to do,” he tells Felassan, who has been patiently waiting for him in the Crossroads.

“Where do we start?”

Solas clenches his fists. Then he takes a deep breath.

“By breaking apart the Inquisition.”

(He wonders if Briseis will have the strength of heart to kill him the next time they meet. He knows he will not.)

 

* * *

 

   
**If you must speak,**

**Speak every word as though it were unique**

**6.**

When they meet again he finds his prediction to be true. Two years have passed and she looks at him straight in the eye, chin up and defiant and so very tired. He can see the exhaustion in every line of her face, in the way she sets her bones. Her arm glows green and sparks from time to time; it smells rotten and he can see death in her hand, right where his Mark once stood. She is in so much pain and yet she does not bend. She does not break. He stops her pain with a flicker of his mind; it won’t last but it will be enough for them to talk. And they talk for a little while and he tells her scraps of the truth. He needs to buy time for his agents, who are now fleeing the Inquisition ranks and will have to regroup to reorganize themselves. But he is buying time for himself, as well. He is buying enough time to enjoy her presence and her voice and the strong resilience of her convictions. She has discovered the wolf in him but she does not sway or cower in fear, like many others of her kind would. She is unique. Always has been.

It would be more merciful to kill her now and spare all the pain that there is to come. But he cannot do it. He cannot find that strength within himself; he cannot rip apart his own heart.

“If you had just told me…” She pleads, staggering forward. She keeps clutching her arm and her forehead it’s beaded with sweat. His spell won’t hold on for much longer.

“Then you would carry the same burden I do.”

“I want to!” She says. “Ma ghilana, venhan.”

_My heart, show me the way._

He shakes his head and takes a step back. She keeps coming closer; she keeps finding ways to creep back into his chest.

“I cannot do that to you, venhan.”

“But you would do it to yourself? I cannot bear to think of you alone!”

“I walk the Din’anshiral. There is only death on this journey. I would not have you see what I become.”

Briseis takes another step forward and then grabs his arm. She presses her forehead against his chest. He does not move, frozen in terror.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow.”

“Venhan…”

“Don’t make me beg. Don’t strip me of whatever dignity I have left.”

He hugs her and it feels like returning home after a long journey abroad. He feels complete. Seamless. As if there hasn’t been an ongoing war between his people and her own. As if he is not responsible for every death in the last three years and it is not her sisters’ blood marring his hands. He hugs her and they are back at Haven, silently sitting beneath the broken sky and he brushes the snow out of her hair and she blushes and it is quiet and there is peace.

“If you come with me,” he says. “Your people will die.”

The Inquisition, of course.

And she claws at his arm, with taunt, white-knuckled fingers in a vice-like gripe. He remembers her clawing at him just like that back in the Exalted Plain, besides a riverbend, waiting for Cassandra to come through. He remembers and he mourns that distant past.

“It doesn’t have to be that way… we can work this out together! We can solve it; we can find another path… it doesn’t have to be like this.”

“Briseis…”

“Let me go with you.”

He presses his lips against her brow, sighing.

He was right. She is killing him with every word but he cannot muster the energy to mutter a simple _no._

 

* * *

 

   
**If you must die, sweetheart**

**Die knowing your life was my life's best part**

**7.**

In the end, he carries her through the Eluvian, back into the Crossroads with him. He carries her like a bride, for she fainted the moment he took her arm away. He has sealed the wound with magic but the images of burned flesh and ivory bone and tender muscle are still fresh in his mind. His clothes are soaked with blood. He passes by his agents, who are scurrying hurriedly in any way to try and take control of the Eluvian network and every elf stops dead in their tracks to stare at him. At their leader, the Dread Wolf, carrying the Inquisitor with the same delicacy one would carry a broken bird.

Solas does not speak; he just keeps walking. Slowly, carefully, afraid that his magic might slip if he loses focus. Her heartbeat is weak and tired against his own. She could die any minute now. He hugs her closer to his body and thinks of his words and thinks of his choices. _I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die_ he had said before. He had believed, before. But now he looks at her, at her dark eyelashes and the freckles that dust her nose and the little dimple in her chin and he can’t. He can’t.

“ _You must_ ,” Mythal’s voice whispers to him, from somewhere near and far at once. He wills her away.

Solas crosses the last Eluvian in the road, straight into his private chambers in a far-away ruin, deep in the Antivan dessert. Gently, he places Briseis in his bed and lets his magic wash over her to heal and restore. She is sweating heavily and he places one hand on her jaw. Her pulse is slowing down. Solas tries to think of other ways, tries to recall potions and remedies and ancient rituals to staunch the wound and calm her body. He thinks _for whatever good it is my power if I cannot saver her?_ but he also thinks _maybe it is more merciful to let her go now, before her world burns down to ashes._

He cries, bitterly, kneeling besides his bed, and his tears fall on her throat.

“If you must die, ma venhan, die knowing your life was my life’s best part.”

The wolf howls his despair.

(But she wakes.

She lives yet another day.)

 

* * *

 

   
**And if you must die,**

**Remember your life**

**8.**

“No-one will have to die,” she tells him days later. She’s sitting upright, with a bowl of broth in her lap. He feeds her slowly and then cleans her chin with a clean piece of cloth. The air feels heavy between them; it reeks of disappointment and shame. Briseis blushes all over, mortified by her new inability to even feed herself. The soft lines of her face are tight with anger and worry; she looks older, he realizes. So much older than the girl he met at Haven, fresh-faced and earnestly optimistic. Briseis meets his eye and he has trouble holding her steely gaze.

She has changed so much.

“If it were that easy, my love, don’t you think I would have done things differently?” He tries not to sound harsh but something inside him recoils at her disapproval.

“You were too worried about working alone,” she says. “It’s absurd. You care so much about being the _lone wolf_ that you would rather take us all down that accept a little help.”

He puts down the spoon, irritated.

“And who do you think would help me, da’len? Where should I—“

“Do _not_ ,” she interrupts him, ice-cold. “Do not, ever again, call me a child.”

Solas stops mid-sentence and lowers his gaze, embarrassed. She is missing an arm, a family (old and new) and even the necessary strength to fight him and survive. And yet she stands prouder than him, surer, still full of that optimistic rage.

She has not changed at all.

“Ir abelas.”

“Tel’abelas,” she sighs. “Solas, I promise you I will help you free The People. I’ll gladly lay down my life for them.”

“Your… people are not my own. This whole world is not my own. I need to restore what once was. I need—“

Briseis places her only hand over his left one and he shuts up at once. (Oh, if only the world knew the power the Inquisitor commands over the Dread Wolf). He waits, head-down, eyes locked on their touching palms. She says:

“What you need is to see an alienage. You need to travel. You need to understand.”

He rises his head, confused.

“I have travelled. Before I joined the Inquisition, I walked all of Thedas and I saw numerous alienages. I saw other dalish clans. I know—“

“No. You don’t, my venhan. You really don’t know,” she says with a soft smile. She rises her hand and touches his cheek, lightly, then drags her fingertips across his skin until they rest on his collarbone. She breathes in the worries: and then exhales the resolution. Her eyes luminous when she says “Help me get dressed, love. There is work to be done.”

He helps her through every step of the way. He helps her out of bed and into her breeches. He ties the laces of her blouse and then brushes her hair. His fingers tread lightly over the nape of her neck and she lets out a shuddering sight. He takes in her ramrod straight back and the little moles behind her ears. He thinks _I love you._ He says:

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she says. “I forgive you.”

His hands stop mid-air.

“Briseis…”

“I will show you, Solas, what life means. What life _is_ in this world that you want to erase. If we must die I want you to remember our lives.”

She turns her head around to look at him through heavy lashes and clouded eyes. He brings their foreheads together and they breathe each other in, silently, for a while. He thinks _I’m sorry_ but he says:

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

 

* * *

 

   
**You are**

**You are**

**9.**

_You are the reason why children smile in this alienage. You are the reason why they come out to the tree square, even when the shems are around and the air is heavy and their parents are scared. You are the reason little Inar hasn’t cried for days even though her mother has died. You are the reason why the adults feel more comfortable to go out at night and hold little markets at the end of the week. You are the reason why their bellies are fuller and their eyes cleaner._

_Your Inquisition changed them. For good._

Solas sits beneath the Venhadahl with his hands on his knees. The alienage busies around him to set the preparations for a wedding. Mirwen, a redheaded, freckled youth is marrying Roshan, dark-skinned and thin, who she has known all of her life and everyone keeps talking about what a precious couple they are. Briseis helps them set the tables and the chairs, and she moves among them as if she was one of their own. Her lack of vallaslin, he supposes, helps matters greatly. She talks with confidence and she works as much as anyone in possession of both hands — and she turns fiery and short-tempered at anyone who attempts to claim otherwise. Solas watches her and he can feel himself smile. He can feel his gaze soften and his heart melt. The people too, seem different from how he had pictured them. These elves are not so different to—

“Master Solas!” Says a little voice to his left. He turns around and finds a child, no higher than his knee, dressed up to the nines in a blue dress.

“Yes, da’len?”

“Can you please braid my hair? Inar says you’re the best!” She pleads, eyes huge and watery. Her pouting is adorable.

Solas lets out a little laugh and says:

“Of course, da’len. Come here.”

She beams.

Before long he has braided the little mane of every girl in the alienage. Some boys, too, have approached him asking for “manlier braids” in a rough tone. And he had complied. Their parents, busy with the preparations, thank Solas for taking care of them with knowing glances. He feels something warm in his chest and smiles back at them. Hours later, after the wedding and the dancing and the games, Briseis sits next to him on their little bed in the tiniest shack of the whole neighborhood and rests her head on his shoulders. They breathe together for a bit and he thinks _I could live like this forever._

“Me too,” she says.

He blushes under the realization that he has spoken that though aloud.

“You have helped them so much, venhan. Your inquisition did so much good.”

“And yet there is still so much to do,” she smiles against his skin. “We will leave tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“Other towns. Other alienages. And then the forests and their clans. We will help them all.”

“How?”

“Just by reaching to them. By listening. And then we will return to Skyhold.”

He can feel himself stiffen already.

“Venhan, you know I can’t. Your companions will kill me. And I have still work to do. The Veil…”

She places one hand on his chest.

“Solas. You will not decide upon the fate of this world until you have lived through it. Then we will return to everyone else and then we will choose how to face this. I promise you that we will defeat the Evanuris.” She looks at him, dead-serious. “I’m giving you my word that we will free the People. But you must have patience.”

“And what should I tell my agents?”

“Let them keep an eye on the Qunari; the Winter’s Palace plot will not be the only one we face.”

“Who will handle your inquisition while we are away?”

“Cassandra,” she declares, matter-of-factly. “I trust her with my life; and it was her who started it all. I know she will do good. Divine Victoria will help, no doubt.”

An insurmountable tiredness takes hold of his bones and he lets himself flop into bed, droning a deep sigh. Briseis stares at him through the darkness and suddenly no time has passed at all: her hair is full of moonlight and her mouth tastes sweet. She tilts her head.

“Tell me,” she commands.

“It’s only… that you seem to have an answer for every question, don’t you?” Solas stares at their broken, dirty, steeped ceiling. His eyes travel along the cracks. He says, “I feel so lost. I know what I must do but it’s so hard, now.”

His voice is very small.

“It will be alright, ma venhan.”

When he looks at her, he remembers her dying body among his sheets back in those Antivan ruins he once called home. He cannot let this world die, now. Not when she is in it. But then what? What to do? What course can he take? Is there even a way out of this maze?

“You’re everything,” he tells her. “Nothing terrifies me more.”

She embraces him in the dark.

 

* * *

 

   
**Oh, you are**

**You are**

**Oh**

**10.**

For a long time, they travel. They walk and ride through towns and forests alike. They stay for a few days or a few weeks in every alienage they find, with every clan they meet. They help. Fixing roofs, caring for sheep and children alike, with the harvest of the fields and the sow of new earth. Briseis never reveals her identity and she asks sometimes, about their opinion of the Inquisitor. Some people say _she may be an elf but no much good for our folk among those shems, innit?_ and some reply _she sent men to defend our lands of the rebel mages and she took in refugees, my son, you see, he works at Skyhold’s kitchens—_ and some spat to the ground and just grumble _mages! to hell with them all_ and it is those people who Briseis talks to the most. Slowly, calmly, day after day until their shoulders stop shaking and the venom in their voices dies away. She talks to those who call her “thin-blood” and those who call her “flat-ear.” It is not easy, sometimes, to make them understand; but she tries nonetheless.

(“No sword can change a man’s heart,” she says once. “Just patience and truth.”

Solas comprehends she is changing his mind, too.

He realizes he does not care.)

He keeps talking to his agents and they return to the Crossroads, sometimes, to establish plans and strengthen their watch on the Qunari. She always comes along with him and every agent recognizes her at once. She recognizes some of them, too. A woman that used to work in Skyhold's kitchens. A gardener. A servant who changed her pot-chamber. All Elven, all forgotten.

Solas asks them to keep an eye on the Inquisition, but to never let it slip where their leader is. And through tiny snippets of information, Briseis comes to know that Cassandra is doing good work, no matter how graveling it must be. She has dealt with Ferelden complains about their increasing power (thanks to King Alistair’s help, no doubt) and Briala’s concern about their politics for the People _now that the Inquisitor is gone._ They all think her dead and as much as Solas is horrified, Briseis finds it terribly amusing. “Just think about the tantrum Sera will throw”, she says one-day, while they’re stargazing at the Brecilian Forest.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, as if there was nothing funnier on earth.

He feels alive.

As they move through Thedas, he sees much good.

(“I know our people are living off something almost dead and nonsensical at this point,” a Keeper tells him. She’s old and wrinkled and walks with the help of a cane; they wander through the woods near the meadow where her clan stays. “But it is the only thing we have left of our culture. It is the only thing that sets us apart from shems, physical appearance be damned. It is broken and poor but it is ours.”

“But it is  _wrong._ ”

“So is the way shemlem worship Andraste. I’m sure that her teachings are very different from those they proclaim. I’m sure her teachings did not include racism and hatred against our own. But they find comfort in her words, do they not? They find peace.”

“It is ridiculous. They act like… sheep,” he grumbles, arms crossed. He feels like a child. “They cannot think for themselves. Just like you _dalish_ and your—“

“Da’len.” She smiles. “It is not a matter of faith but that of companionship. Worship for the Creators brings us all together; it tightens the bonds in our community.”

“They are not real,” he spats. She shakes her head.

“And what about our feelings? They are real. They matter.”

Solas sighs.

“You just cannot understand. Your mind it’s too limited—“

“I think, da’len,” she says with a laugh, “that you need to look into the mirror.”

He does.

He sees nothing. Not yet.)

He sees kindness and gratitude, compassion and acceptance, curiosity, wonder, love, truth. He sees so many elves helping one-another to survive the mess he created; but he also sees humans helping them. And he sees humans who repent and humans who try their best. He meets dalish elves who trust strangers and call him _lethallen_ , city elves who shield him from dangers and call him _friend._ He meets too, those he had meet before. Those who are ignorant, and selfish and violent. Those who murder and steal and break families and lives apart. Those who are lost, directionless, raging and hungry like wolves. Those who are alone and wish to stay so. Those who disrespect the world of old, _his world,_ but also those who live anchored to it. Solas thinks he understands, now.

He feels so sick, sometimes.

“I killed them,” he cries once, ugly and bitter tears against Brisei’s chest when they stay in Kirkwall. The alienage there it’s one of the darkest and dirtiest he has ever put foot on but the people are exceedingly kind in exchange. Merrill’s smile could lit up all of the world. They stay in a little house near her and come the night he feels overwhelmed by the guilt and the regret. He can’t breathe. He can’t _think_.

They met a young girl today, scarred and quiet, whose big brother joined the Inquisition early on and died at Haven alongside many others. Solas thought that by now he was immune to the hurt of others; that he was ready to stomach the loses of a few for the well-being of many. But her eyes were so empty and cold. She said _I wish he had not gone. What’s the point of a healed sky if he’s not here?_ And she laced her hands together, head-down and shoulders-hunched and she seemed for a single second the epitome of grief. Briseis hugged her. Solas stared.

The grief is choking him.

“I deserve to die. After everything I did… please, venhan…”

“No,” she says, softly. This is not the first time it happens.

He sobs violently and his tears rattle his whole body. She holds him and closes her eyes.

“You have to be strong, venhan.”

His own words echo in the tiny, dirty room.

“Please, let me rest,” he pleads.

“Not yet.”

It is on those nights when he wishes he had never woken up.

“You are strong. You will make it.”

“I don’t _deserve it._ ”

“Then work,” she says, simply. “And we will sort out your punishment after everything is done.”

He thinks _it will never be enough._

He nods.

 

* * *

 

  
**If you must fight,**

**Fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night**

**11.**

In the end, he discovers that the worst fight it’s not against the Evanuris, or Orlais political power-play, or the Blight and the damned darkspawn or Cassandra’s angry sword right at his throat once they return to Skyhold. The worst fight it’s not about the thousands of books that fill their chambers to the brim, it’s not about the headaches and the dead-ends and the arguments with Dorian and the brightest scholars the world can offer while they try to find a safe way to rip apart the Veil. The worst fight it’s not against Tevinter and their slave-owners; it’s not against the Qunari or the Tal-Vashoth or their hive-mind mentality.

The worst fight rages within himself. He wakes up every day tangled in her arms and it takes a long time to pry himself loose. It takes a long time for him to find the strength to move, and then walk, and then get dressed and eat and start to work. She leaves the bed easily and she moves lightly, as if she was not burdened at all — that distant night where she cried in his arms feels dreamlike now, like a vision from another world. A world where could give her the support she needed. A world where he promised to never leave. In this world, though, just living takes all the fight out of him. He wishes to sleep. To close his eyes and lose himself in the Fade and never return to his world or his obligations or his duty to the People. He is tired of fighting. Of carrying the Dread Wolf’s pelt. He cannot change the world, he cannot free those in slavery and stop the hunger, the fear, the hate—

He cannot do it anymore.

Not even magic feels real in this wash-away world. He drowns in this world he created through his own mistakes and he can’t wake up. He can’t escape.

“It hurts,” he whispers. He is sitting on the bed, with both feet on the floor and his head hidden in his hands. He cannot muster the strength to rise up.

Briseis, fully dressed and wide-awake, sits next to him and pulls her arm around his waist. She kisses his shoulder and says:

“You can do this.”

She says it with the same unwavering faith of _we’re going to fix the sky_ and _the Inquisition will thrive_ and _sweetalker_ and _I love you._ Words seem to be her greatest power; she commands with them, she creates, she destructs, she protects. Solas leans into her voice and her touch.

“It’s too hard. I… I don’t want to live in this world.”

“You have too. So has everyone else. You choose this for us.”

“I regret it _so much_.”

“Regret will not change anything. Regret is easy and simple. Regret will not bring anyone back,” she says and it’s true and her words cut deeper than any sword.

“I deserve to die.”

“No,” she says. “You deserve to live so you can atone.”

He feels the tears before they arrive.

“How can I change everything I did wrong? How can I make it better?”

Briseis puts her hand on his arm.

“One step at a time, Solas. Only patience and truth can change a man’s heart.”

“You will not live to see those changes,” he says. They never speak about this. They never speak about the fact that he will live forever and she will not. But Briseis remains unfazed by his words. She smiles against his skin and he can feel that smile: he can feel her chapped lips and her teeth and the way her jaw moves when she kisses him there.

“But you will. And so will our children.”

Solas looks up.

“Ma venhan,” he says and he is kissing her, breathing her in, tangling in her laughter and he understands now.

The worst fight it’s understanding and not closing his eyes again. The worst fight is knowing and moving forward. The worst fight it’s learning to say _I am sorry_ with every touch and _I love you_ with every look.

The worst fight will be living for another being, now.

 

* * *

 

   
**If you must work,**

**Work to leave some part of you on this earth**

**12.**

Time slips through their fingers as they work through every single one of Solas’ mistakes. It is hard, sometimes, and things never quite go as smoothly as they wished. But they push through it. Solas reads and writes and speaks and practices with a thousand scholars until the day comes when he can destroy his own creation and take down the Veil. Briseis deals with the politics. She deals with Ferelden’s complains and Orlais’ expansionism and Tevinter’s requests and the Qunari threats. She sends ambassadors and treaties and always asks to parlay. Josephine becomes her closest ally and Briseis herself travels the whole world with her advisor, trying to pull Thedas together through patience and truth. Sometimes money helps, as well. As everything, it takes time. Their firstborn is always surrounded by uncles and aunts who spoil her rot. Varric carries her around and Sera plays with her and Bull teaches her how to lie and play Diamondback at an alarming young age; but time passes and their second child, a young boy does not meet such aunts and uncles as often anymore; their third and fourth only know these strange people’s names. They all move on with their lives. Cassandra and Varric end up married, against all bets, and work their lives away in Kirkwall, trying to make something out of that mess. Cullen opens a sort of clinic for Templars who wish to rehabilitate themselves and Dorian fights tirelessly at the very center of Tevinter politics, scraping for any bit of freedom and right he can get for the slaves. Hawke screams and protests and rises his voice for every mage that cannot.

As the years pass, all of the Inquisitor’s inner circle seem to work on something bigger than their own lives. They work for the future generations; for the children, their own and those of others. They meet again when the time comes to fight the Evanuris and the root of the Blight and the Titans rise from the earth. But they are older now, and other heroes have come to fight for them. Other heroes rise to the challenge and the Inquisitor and her Wolf work in the shadows, as always, with words and truths.

Every time they think the world is about to end, they survive. Most of them. And for every death they promise to fight harder, to be stronger, to never give up. They push through the fights and the demons and the magic and the ancient Gods re-awaken but it never feels impossible. It is just life, at the end of it. The need to fight. To work. To survive for a better day.

When Solas sits in Skyhold’s gardens with his children he feels as if he could breathe again. Because he has brought something new to this terrible world he created. He has made, for once, something pure and perfect and precious. His younger daughter, Leana, makes him a daisy chain and he puts it on obligingly.

“Papa, you look so happy!” She chirps.

He laughs and his regret-steeped heart does not feel so heavy anymore.

 

* * *

 

   
**If you must live, darling one,**

**Just live**

**13.**

His research to remove the Veil without destroying the world takes a very long time. He works on it for years and he curses his own foolishness for even thinking it would contain the Evanuris; Andruil and Elgar’nan escape all the same despite his efforts. The Veil is a useless contraception but so very _complicate_ to remove, because it has tangled itself with reality for thousands of years. But he tries. He tries every single day for a long time, until his eyes hurt and his hands tremble. Briseis grows old next to him as they work and fight through their lives. Her hair grays and her eyes wrinkle and her cheeks dimple with time. He has never loved her more.

The day his ritual it’s complete and he can finally remove the Veil she has turn into an old, very thin and very small woman. Their children have long since grown up and had their own children and those had their own. Their family keeps growing in so many different places; in clans, sometimes, and others in cities. It has been a long time since alienages were what they used to be.

The day where the whole world changes and the Veil falls, he is holding her hand as they stand on their balcony in Skyhold. For a second, nothing has changed. She is young and soft and her heart has not hardened yet. She looks at him with the sweetest smile and when he kisses her he says _ar lath ma venhan_ and they are there. They are young and worried and the lies tangle in his lips. They don’t know yet how their world will change. How _they_ will change the world.

Solas kisses her and the age does not matter. Briseis is beautiful, as always.

“You are so beautiful,” he says, smiling.

“Sweetalker.”

They are kissing when the Veil breaks apart and a rush of magic swifts through their bodies and clothes. The sky turns colorful and bright; the air seems clearer; the world seems more solid, somehow. A thousand little lights shine all around them, playfully, caressing their arms and their faces. Spirits. Briseis laughs, delighted, and moves her hand just a bit; magic comes naturally to her.

“It’s incredible.” She looks at him, amazed. “Was Arlathan anything like this?”

He thinks of Arlathan, with its beautiful, impossible architecture, its luxuries, its vanity and wastefulness. He thinks of Briseis’ laughter and her hands, and her kisses and their family. He thinks of his friends. All the people he has met through the years. He smiles a bit.

“This world is so much better, venhan.”

She kisses him slowly as the magic tingles in their skin.

“You will get to live it.”

“And so do you.”

She blinks.

“What?”

“Look at your hand.”

She does. Not a single wrinkle. Not a single shake. Her hand is clean and unmarred as if she was twenty years old again.

She _is._

“Solas…!”

“There is a reason we were immortal. The magic in the air… when I created the Veil, it created the ‘disease’ of mortality. It was my fault, as many other things.”

She looks at him wide-eyed, confused and bewildered as she touches her own face and traces her features.

“Solas, this is terrible! How will the economy sustain the people if we never die? Oh, Creators, there is so much to do…”

“Venhan,” he says, cupping her face. She stops speaking mid-sentence and her arms freeze in the air. He brings their foreheads together and then breathes. In, out.

“Let’s just live, for now.”

Just live. Another thousand sunsets, another thousand tickle-fights, another thousand hugs and kisses and smiles. Another thousand travels and books to read and teacups to break when he wakes up and pats the little table besides their bed. Another thousand minutes with their children, and their grand-children and all those to come. Another thousand fights for freedom and truth and peace. Never-ending work.

“Let’s live,” she repeats, breathing deeply. Her anxiety dissolves in the cold air around them.

“Just live. One step at a time.”

Solas brushes one little light of her hair, an annoying little spirit of Faith.

“Don’t leave me,” she says, suddenly. He caresses her cheek.

“I won’t.”

The truth can be beautiful, too.

 


End file.
